Chapter 1

Bree

The bar's emptier than a politician's promise on a Tuesday night. Just me, three regulars nursing their usual poison, and the soft jazz that's been my only company for the past hour. I polish glasses with the kind of rhythm that comes from muscle memory, watching condensation drip down the windows like the city's crying.

The door chime announces another soul seeking liquid salvation. I glance up to see a man in an expensive suit sliding onto a barstool. Everything about him screams money—from his perfectly pressed charcoal jacket to the watch that could fund a small country. He carries himself like he owns whatever room he enters.

"What can I get you?"

His eyes sweep the bottles behind me with the intensity of a hawk sizing up prey. "Macallan 25, neat."

"Fresh out of the fancy stuff. Got Jameson, Maker's Mark, and a bottle of Wild Turkey that's been waiting for someone special."

He frowns like I've personally offended his ancestors. "What kind of establishment doesn't stock proper whiskey?"

The kind that serves people who don't think their bank account determines their worth, but I keep that thought locked behind my teeth. "The kind that knows good whiskey doesn't need a trust fund to taste right. Jameson's got more character in one sip than most people have in their whole personality."

"Character?" He laughs, but there's little humor in it. "That shelf looks like a college dorm room's idea of a liquor cabinet. Where's the Hibiki? The Pappy Van Winkle? Hell, even a decent Glenfiddich would be an improvement."

My hand tightens around the glass I'm drying. "And here I thought we were serving drinks, not conducting a pissing contest about who's got the biggest wallet."

"It's about standards." He adjusts his gold cufflinks like he's preparing for battle. "Quality. Something this... quaint little establishment clearly doesn't understand."

The word 'quaint' hits like a slap. Every muscle in my body coils tight.

"You know what? You're absolutely right." I slam the glass down harder than necessary. "This place is way too quaint for someone with your refined palate. There's a wine bar three blocks down where they'll happily charge you fifty dollars for a shot of liquid snobbery. Door's right where you left it."

"I'm simply pointing out that—"

"That you've got more money than manners? Message received loud and clear, trust fund baby."

His face turns the color of expensive wine. "Trust fund baby? I earned every—"

"Oh please." I lean across the bar, my voice carrying to every corner of the room. "Let me guess—started from the bottom of daddy's company? Worked your way up from the executive parking garage to the executive elevator?"

The three regulars at the end of the bar have stopped pretending to mind their own business. Tommy's nursing his beer like it's front-row entertainment, and I catch him sliding his phone out with the stealth of a seasoned gossip.

"You don't know anything about my life," Suit Guy sputters.

"Don't I? Designer everything, never missed a meal, probably had a nanny who cut the crusts off your sandwiches until you were sixteen." I grab a bottle of Jameson and pour myself a shot. "Meanwhile, some of us learned the difference between earned and inherited before we could tie our own shoes."

"This is completely unprofessional—"

"Professional?" I down the shot and feel the burn fuel my fire. "You waltz in here acting like my bar's beneath you, talking about standards like you're doing me some cosmic favor by gracing us with your presence. That's not professional, that's entitled with a capital E."

Tommy's definitely recording now, his phone angled perfectly to catch both of us. The other regulars have abandoned all pretense of looking away.

"I was merely suggesting improvements—"

"No, you were being a condescending ass-hat who thinks money equals class." I slam the bottle down. "News flash, Gordon Gekko—class isn't something you can buy at Nordstrom. It's treating people with respect regardless of their zip code."

"My name isn't—"

"Oh, I'm sorry. What should I call you? Master of the Universe? Emperor of Trust Funds? Or do we go with the classic—Daddy's Little Investment?"

The man's jaw works like he's chewing glass. Behind him, I notice more heads turning, phones emerging from pockets like electronic vultures circling fresh roadkill.

"You'll regret this attitude when word gets around about this place."

"What word? That we don't kiss ass for people who think their net worth is a personality trait? I'll put that on the Yelp page myself."

He's still sputtering about respect and customer service when I decide I've had enough entertainment for one evening. I walk around the bar, my heels clicking against the scuffed wooden floor like a countdown to his exit.

"Here's what's going to happen, Monopoly Money." I grab his elbow with just enough pressure to make my point. "You're going to take your designer attitude and your imaginary wine collection knowledge, and you're going to march that overpriced suit right out of my bar."

"You can't just—"

"Watch me." I steer him toward the door while Tommy practically falls off his stool trying to get the perfect angle. "Consider this a free lesson in hospitality—real hospitality, not the kind you buy with black credit cards."

The door swings open, letting in the cool night air and the distant hum of traffic. I give him one final push onto the sidewalk.

"Don't let the neon sign hit you on the way out!"

The door slams with the satisfying finality of a judge's gavel. Behind me, the bar erupts. Tommy whoops and raises his beer bottle like he's toasting a championship victory. The other regulars burst into applause, and someone starts a slow clap that builds into genuine appreciation.

"That's how you handle a corporate asshole!" Old Pete calls from his corner booth, his weathered hands clapping enthusiastically.

"Damn right!" Tommy's still filming, probably uploading to every social media platform known to humanity. "Bree just schooled another trust fund baby!"

The adrenaline courses through my veins like liquid fire, and I can't help but grin. This is exactly why I love this job—these people, this community, this feeling of standing up to bullies in expensive clothes.

"Alright, my beautiful misfits." I spread my arms wide, addressing my small but loyal kingdom. "That excitement calls for last call. Finish up whatever liquid courage you've got left because mama's got to close up shop."

Tommy downs the rest of his beer in three impressive gulps, probably already crafting the caption for his viral video. The others follow suit, leaving tips that are probably too generous for their own wallets but exactly what my heart needs after tonight's performance.

Twenty minutes later, I'm walking through the empty parking lot toward my ancient Honda Civic, keys jangling in the quiet night air. The adrenaline's wearing off, replaced by the familiar weight of exhaustion and frustration that settles on my shoulders like a lead blanket.

I slide into the driver's seat and pull out my phone, scrolling to Monica's contact. She's probably knee deep in an x-rated dream right now, but sometimes a girl needs her best friend's voice to cut through the noise in her head.

The phone rings twice before Monica's groggy voice crackles through the speaker.

"Bree Carter, you better be calling to tell me you won the lottery or found Jesus, because it's almost 2 a.m. and I've got three clients tomorrow who think balayage grows on trees."

"Sorry, babe. Neither divine intervention nor sudden wealth tonight."

"Then what's got you calling at this ungodly hour? And please tell me you're not drunk-dialing from the bar again."

I lean back against the headrest, watching the neon sign flicker through my windscreen. "Just had to kick out another entitled prince who thinks money trumps basic human decency."

"Oh, another one of those." Monica's voice sharpens with interest. "What was it this time? Complained about the music? Demanded a wine list that costs more than my car?"

"Whiskey snob. Acted like my bar was beneath his refined palate, then had the audacity to lecture me about standards while treating me like the help."

"Tell me that you didn’t just smile and take it."

"Monica, you know me better than that. I served him a reality check with a side of get-the-hell-out."

She laughs, the sound warm and familiar through the speaker. "That's my girl. Though I'm guessing this isn't just about some random rich boy with attitude problems."

I close my eyes, feeling the weight of dreams that seem to slip further away each month. "Sometimes I wonder if I'm chasing pipe dreams, you know? This whole bar thing, building something real from nothing. Maybe I'm just setting myself up for disappointment."

"Girl, listen to me." Monica's voice cuts through my spiraling thoughts like scissors through bullshit. "You've been building something real since the day you walked away from your father's nonsense. Every night you show up, every drink you pour with actual care, every asshole you righteously kick to the curb—that's you creating the world you want to live in."

"But what if—"

"What if nothing. You think Oprah sat around wondering if she was good enough? Hell no. She went out there and made herself indispensable. That's exactly what you're doing, one cranky customer at a time."

I find myself smiling despite the exhaustion weighing down my bones. "Since when did you become Tony Robbins?"

"Since my best friend started doubting herself over some suit-wearing mouth breather who probably can't even pronounce Macallan properly. Now get your beautiful black ass home and get some sleep before I drive over there and drag you to bed myself."

"Yes ma'am."

"And Bree? Next time some trust fund baby tries to lecture you about standards, remind him that real class means tipping your bartender and keeping your opinions about her establishment to your damn self."

The drive home passes in a blur of empty streets and streetlights painting golden circles on wet asphalt. My apartment building squats like a tired guardian against the pre-dawn sky, all cracked concrete and dreams deferred. I climb three flights of stairs that creak their familiar welcome, fumble my keys in the lock twice before muscle memory takes over.

Inside, I kick off my shoes and let them land wherever gravity decides. My bed calls to me with the urgency of a fire alarm, sheets still tangled from this morning's reluctant exit. I don't bother changing—just collapse face-first into the pillow and let exhaustion drag me under like a riptide.

Somewhere in the depths of sleep, my phone starts vibrating. Once. Twice. Then constantly, like an electronic seizure that refuses to quit.

I crack one eye open to find sunlight streaming through my blinds with the audacity of uninvited optimism. My phone screen blazes with notifications—missed calls, text messages, and social media alerts scrolling past faster than I can process.

"What the hell?"

The first notification makes my stomach lurch: You've been tagged in a video that's trending on TikTok.

Tommy's masterpiece has exploded across the internet overnight. The view count climbs while I watch—50K, 75K, 100K and rising. Comments flood the screen faster than I can read them, but the general sentiment comes through loud and clear: people love watching entitled rich boys get served reality checks with their evening entertainment.

My phone rings again. Unknown number. I decline and immediately get another call from a different unknown number.

"Bree Carter? This is Jessica from Morrison PR. We'd love to discuss representation—"

I hang up before she finishes her pitch. Two seconds later, another call.

"Ms. Carter, this is David Jackson from Viral Marketing Solutions—"

Click.

My kitchen beckons with the promise of coffee and something resembling breakfast. I shuffle toward the coffee maker while my phone continues its electronic tantrum, buzzing against the counter like an angry wasp trapped in amber.

I hit Monica's contact again, knowing full well I'm about to get verbally demolished for disturbing her beauty sleep twice in one night.

"Bree Carter, I swear on my grandmother's grave—"

"Tommy filmed the whole thing and it's gone viral."

"Come again?"

"The trust fund baby incident. It's trending on TikTok. My phone won't stop ringing with people wanting to represent me or some shit."

"Hold up." I hear rustling, probably Monica sitting up in bed. "What do you mean viral? Like, a few thousand views viral or—"

"Try over a hundred thousand and climbing. PR companies are calling me like I'm the next big influencer."

Monica whoops so loud I have to pull the phone away from my ear. "Girl, you just became internet famous for doing what you do best—calling out rich assholes!"

"This isn't funny, Monica. I don't want to be internet famous. I want to own a bar and mind my own business."

"Maybe the universe is trying to tell you something. When opportunity knocks—"

"When opportunity knocks, it usually wants something I can't afford to give."

"Or maybe it wants to give you something you can't afford to refuse." Monica's voice shifts into that tone she uses when she's about to drop some uncomfortable truth. "Look, I know you hate anything that smells like handouts or charity, but what if this isn't about that? What if this is about people finally seeing what I've been seeing for years?"

My email notification pings. Another one. I scroll through the flood of messages—interview requests, brand partnerships, something from a law firm that makes my stomach clench.

Then I see it: Ashford Holdings.

"Monica, I've got to go. Some company called Ashford Holdings just emailed me."

"Never heard of them. What do they want?"

"Let me find out." I tap the email open while keeping Monica on speaker. "They want to schedule a meeting to discuss a business proposition."

"Ashford Holdings sounds fancy. Google them."

I switch to my browser, fingers flying across the screen. The search results load and my coffee mug slips from my suddenly nerveless fingers, shattering against the kitchen floor in a symphony of ceramic destruction.

"Bree? What happened?"

There on my phone screen, smiling with the confidence of someone never been told no in his entire privileged life, is my trust fund baby. Except the caption underneath reads: Grayson Ashford, CEO, Ashford Holdings.

"Oh shit. Oh shit, oh shit, oh—"

"Bree! What's wrong?"

"The guy. The whiskey snob I kicked out of my bar." I'm staring at his photo like it might spontaneously combust. "He's the CEO of Ashford Holdings."

"Wait, what? The guy you publicly humiliated is some kind of business mogul?"

"Apparently." I scroll through the company website with mounting horror. Investment firm. Real estate development. Net worth that has more zeros than my social security number. "Monica, I think I just screwed myself six ways from Sunday."

"Or," Monica's voice carries that dangerous edge that means she's plotting something, "maybe you just got his attention in a way his usual crowd never could."

Either way, no good can come of this.